"I'm so glad you appeared," she said, looking earnestly into his face. "I was beginning to
get warried."
"That's all right," Billy answered brightly. "You mustn't worry about me." He put his suitcase
on the chair and started to open it.
"And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came here?"
"I'm not a bit hungry, thank you," he said. "I think I'll just go to bed as soon as possible
because tomorrow I've got to get up rather early and report to the office."
"Very well, then. I'll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would
you be kind enough to pop into the sitting-room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone
has to do that because it's the law of the land, and we don't want to go breaking any laws at
this stage in the proceedings, do we?" She gave him a little wave of the hand and went quickly
out of the room and closed the door.
Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn't worry Billy in
the least. After all, she not only was harmless--there was no question about that--but she was
also quite obviously a kind and generous soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a son in
the war, or something like that, and had never gotten over it.
So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted
downstairs to the ground floor and entered the living-room. His landlady wasn't there, but the
fire was glowing in the hearth, and the little dachshund was still sleeping soundly in front
of it. I'm a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all right.
He found the guest-book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name
and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, and, as one always does
with guest-books, he started to read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The
other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol.
That's funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell.